The thread hung, as thin as gossamer, as delicate and fragile as a spider’s silken strand.
Dark circles stained the pale skin beneath her eyes, and she ran shaky fingers through forgotten tangles. Long nails snagged within her web of hair, and the softest sigh slipped from desiccated lips as she watched the door through jaded eyes.
Outside, grey clouds filled a grey day and rain spattered the streets, and she knew no one would come.
Still, her fingers clutched the thread, slight and frail, her last thread of hope.
I haven’t written any flash fiction since Christmas, and have missed Lillie Mcferrin’s Five Sentence Fiction greatly, so this is my piece for the prompt Clutch. Hop over to Five Sentence Fiction to read the other great stories.